


Mirror, Mirror

by thosebowleggedhunters



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Forgive Me, M/M, Vampire AU, eventually other things, gratuitous mentions of leather
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:05:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thosebowleggedhunters/pseuds/thosebowleggedhunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Stiles' list of things that should be illegal, large eyebrows, muscles wrapped in denim and leather, and sketchy dance clubs are unsurprisingly high on his list. Also Stiles is NEVER getting anything for Danny ever again.</p><p>OR; imagine Teen Wolf, but with Vampires and Stiles as the main character. Also slightly more gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome back to hell.  
> Un-beta'd. More to come, however I don't know when.
> 
> Scream with me at hawkeye-eternal.tumblr.com.

Stiles wakes up with a killer headache.

Gropping blindly around, he's unsure of where he is and what the hell just happened. He groans loudly and finally takes in his surroundings. He appears to be lying in corner in the ally behind the club he had visited earlier that evening with Scott, Lydia, Allison and Danny. He's also NOT cold, which is odd considering it's the middle of November and apparently the middle of the night. He's extremely confused as to when they got separated and why he's the only one lying in an ally. This is definitely the kind of trouble Scott gets into, not him. Never him.

His head is thudding like his heart moved up to his brain, or maybe it's just the insanely loud dance music blaring from the club, louder than anything he's ever heard. His heart is surprisingly quiet for all the thudding it's doing in his head.

That's when his memories come rushing back. He left to grab Danny's smokes from his truck, stupid as that was. Smoking wasn't even allowed inside! Then he remembers someone coming towards him at breakneck speed, and flinging up his hands to protect his face. Thinking it was a mugging, he called out, 'just take whatever you want'. He catches a gleam of teeth, yellow and chipped before the person attacks, jumping at him from several feet away. He's knocked heavily to the ground, and the last thing he remembers is a pair of red pin pricks glowing in the darkness. Then he blacked out. And woke up. And hurt all over.

As he sits up there's a sudden, sharp pain in his gut and he's terrified he might have been stabbed as well as attacked. He holds his breath and slides his hands down to his abdomen. Nothing. No sticky, tacky blood staining his front. He sighs in relief.

His wallet and keys are missing from his jeans however. So he was mugged. Bloody fantastic. He takes inventory of the rest of his body, noting that all his muscles are sore and the side of his neck aches like he's been lying on it crookedly. Figures, he's probably been lying in this dank ally way for a few hours. Guess it's time to find his so called 'friends' who didn't come look for him and find a way home. He takes a deep breath before attempting to haul himself to his feet.

Only to drop back to the ground as the pain in his gut sears his insides. The air smells thick and heavy and full of heat and warmth and the coppery smell of-- no, that can't be right. That's completely insane. If Stiles isn't hurt he shouldn't be able to smell--

Another deep breath lights a fire in his stomach and makes him clench his jaw so tight he feels his canines against his bottom lip. He folds over on himself, and pushes his face into his knees willing the pain to stop. He's never felt anything of this caliber before, and he's quite thankful for it.

Then it hits him. He HAS felt like this once before. During the weeks prior to his mother's death, Stiles spent so much time by her side he rarely ate or slept. He went about 3 and a half days before he collapsed and woke up in a hospital bed beside his mom, hooked up to as many IV's at she was.

He's hungry. Lord have mercy, he is absolutely starving. For something, ANYTHING to fill the fire burning in his stomach. He doesn't dare breathe deeply again as he pulls himself up and leans heavily against the grey brick beside him. He rubs his temples with one hand and massages his aching stomach with the other.

It's hard to think over the obnoxious thudding of the music coming from the club as well as the thudding in his own head. He tries to shut it out and THINK around the noise, but it only makes the music louder, if possible. The DJ must have changed the song because the music has erupted into a swell of constant thuds and shakes. Whoever invented this kind of music needs to be sought out and promptly shot. Stiles likes Dubstep well enough but this has taken it entirely too damn far.

Suddenly, the song cuts out like an answer to the half formed prayer he started to mutter under his breath.

"Praise Jesus," he murmurs with a scowl. But the thudding still hasn't stopped, like it's taken on a life of its own in Stiles' head.

Only it's not an out of control, bass-beat thumping that usually accompanies spinning disc's and DJ's with weird names and questionable moral codes. It's several dozen different beats all doing the same ba-bump at different intervals. Gradually the beats begin to slow, some faster than others, but it's still too much for Stiles to bare. His gut is still on fire and his head hurts and his mouth tastes like ass and he wants to go home. He turns away from the club and runs as fast as he can down the ally, only to run smack into another, very solid wall.

He lands flat on his back, which does nothing to help the wall of pain spreading out from his stomach and the acid burning up his throat. He attempts to curl in on himself as well as hold his head.

"Smooth," a low voice dripping with sarcasm says from above him.

Stiles looks up at what he thought was a wall to find out it was actually an enormous wall of pure man muscle coated in leather and denim that he collided with, and not an actual wall. His body tells him that there really isn't a difference between running into either.

"I've already been attacked and mugged today and I'm wicked hungry, so either help me up or get out of my way," he scowls from the ground.

The arm attached to the hand that helps him up should be straight up illegal. That is far too much muscle for a single arm to have. The fact that Stiles can even see the definition through the leather jacket is ridiculous.

"Thanks dude. Maybe you shouldn't stand around in dark allies though. You might give people the wrong idea--not that I have any ideas. Of you, that is. I have ideas. I mean I know I'm hungry and tired and hungry and pissed and did I mention hungry?" Stiles babbles when he's scared. Or hungry. Or slightly turned on by sheer amounts of muscle.

"It's started, hasn't it," Muscle Man says, "it hurts," It sounds like a headache inducing mixture of a statement, question and memory.

Yep. There's the headache. Again.

"Come on, time to go," he says, dragging a hand down Stiles' arm, landing around his wrist and pulling Stiles forward to the head of the alleyway.

"Hold up," Stiles says, using the last of his strength to wrench his hand away from the other man. Stiles isn't stupid, he's not about to wander off with a stranger, no matter how attractive said stranger is, or how hungry he is.

"First off--" he begins, holding up a finger on the hand that isn't massaging his stomach, only to be cut off by a short growl from the tall wall of muscled heaven (read: man) still facing the other way.

"Pleasantries can wait, Stiles. Don't you want something to eat?" the man counters, turning to the side, lighting one side of his exasperated face. Profiles be damned, Dean Winchester has nothing on this man's face. Also eyebrows.

"Dude, how do you know my name, that is entirely too creepy for me to consider wandering off with you."

The man balks, and stands up straight, with an obvious 'shit-ive-been-caught' face plastered on. Stiles just stares at him, waiting for an answer. The man's face softens slightly and he turns towards Stiles. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans with two fingers and pulls out a card, then flips it between is fingers and holds it up for Stiles to read.

Stiles half groans, half gasps when he realizes it's his ID, stolen from him mere... hours? minutes? ago by whoever attacked him. As hungry as he is, things click together and Stiles gets very, very angry.

"I found--" the man begins, shuffling his foot along the ground and rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're the psycho that attacked me!" Stiles accuses, pointing with the hand not currently buried in his stomach.

"No!" he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture and looking generally distressed and annoyed that Stiles would accuse him of such things, "you don't understand--"

He's interrupted as the loud double bang of a door opening and closing grabs Stiles attention. A pretty brunette walks towards them unaware, her eyes lowered on the phone she's clacking away at. She's dressed in a purple mid thigh dress, and dangerously sharp heels. Silver jewelry clatters on her wrists and neck. Her perfume drifts ahead of her, subtlety sweetening the air.

Stiles stiffens as another smell washes over him, thick and hot and heady. His hands tremble and his pupils dilate as the beat in his head starts up again, a single, ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP. An animalistic growl escapes his throat and he feels his body move without his command. He thinks he hears someone shout his name, but everything is blurred and thick and the only thing he can focus on is the beat thudding against the inside of his skull.

Stiles is vaguely aware that he's still moving, before a piercing scream sounds in his ears, and he blacks out again.


	2. Alternate Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is better, I almost promise.
> 
> Un-beta'd

Stiles wakes up in an alternate universe. Yep. Totally. There's no other explanation.

When he registers that he's no longer unconscious, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment, relishing in the fact that he's warm and cushy and something is supporting his neck and back. He doesn't ache or hurt and he was having such a nice dream about a dragon with alarmingly large eyebrows.

Alarmingly large eyebrows. God fucking dammit.

When Stiles finally opens his eyes, all of his senses tell him something's off, and he knows he isn't home. He's lying in a bed, at least, in some sort of drafty, make-shift room. The walls are all plywood and the door is a thick grey sheet drapped across a 6 foot high cut out. The shelves line the walls are bare, and all handcrafted. A dresser stands off to the side with a dark lacquered jewelry box placed neatly in the middle.

Lifting his head and turning to the side, propped up by his elbow. He notes that the very top shelves do, in fact, have little knick-knacks on them and dark coloured clothes lay strewn around on the floor. Apparently he's woken up in a street kid!Stiles version of reality where he has a rather lame taste in clothes and personal belongings.

He reaches around to grab the headboard of the bed to stretch out his side, and his hand finds supple leather. A black leather jacket, to be specific. Okay, fine. Street kid him has some taste. He ignores the fact that the jacket is probably 3 times too big for him and steam rolls forward into the new universe. And yes, he's very convinced about the alternate universe thing right now because it's about the only thing that makes sense.

A new smell enters his nose and he breathes it in deeply before he can stop himself. A mix of peppermint and pine and something spicy in between that reminds him of flavoured hot chocolate and hiking trips.

"Oh, you're awake." a deep voice says from the door. Or the door-like cut out. Whatever.

He turns to find a dark head peering at him with curiosity. As the rest of him appears around the sheet, Stiles notes that he's broad shouldered and only slightly taller than himself, with thick coiled muscles. Intimidating, considering Stiles is unarmed, unaware, and possibly in another universe.

The guy smiles at him though and it's a nice, genuinely warm smile, and sits down on the end of the bed. Now that he's not towering over Stiles, he feels marginally better.

"I'm Boyd." he says, extending a large hand towards him. Stiles quickly extracts his hand from the leather jacket and shakes the offered hand, "Stiles."

"Got a last name, Stiles?" he asks, a mocking tone sliding around his name.

"Stilinski. Got a last name, Boyd?" Stiles snarks back, because Stiles is far better than his given name (sorry mom).

"Boyd is my last name." he laughs, and grabs Stiles' shoulder, hauling him upright, "Come on, time to meet the rest."

Boyd leads him out around the curtain into another drafty room that's larger and has several couches thrown haphazardly against the walls. A TV and game system are hooked up on the far end of the room and 3 people sit around it, cursing colourfully at each other. Glancing at the screen, he realises it's a version of Mario Kart and smiles to himself. Following behind Boyd, they reach the couch and Boyd wacks the one boy in the back of the head lightly, causing the 2 girls to pause the game and spin around.

"Everyone, this is Stiles. Obviously." Boyd introduces, lips quirked in a smile. He doesn't know why the 'obviously' was inserted. He figures he must be as new to them as they are to him.

"Stiles, this is Erica, Isaac and Cora." he says, and each wave in turn as their names are said.

"New blood," Erica says, flipping her blonde hair out of the way, and tossing him her discarded controller "it's all you and Isaac."

He sits down in the space they make for him, between Cora and Isaac. Isaac grins at him and restarts the race, using the characters the girls had been playing with, leaving Isaac with Toad and himself with Princess Peach.

Stiles groans, "I have to race with Peach?" he limbers up his hands over the controller, pressing different buttons and tapping his thumbs on the joysticks.

"Got a problem with the Princess, new blood?" Erica snarls at him.

"Of course not," he amends quickly as the buzzer on the game starts the race. He pulls ahead to 4th and picks up a power up, hoping for something useful, "my usual is Luigi though."

He see's Cora nod out of the corner of his eye and smiles to himself again. "You look like a Luigi man," she says, touching his shoulder lightly. Boyd laughs and throws himself down on the other side of the couch next to Erica who's glaring dagger at him.

Both he and Isaac pull ahead of the CPU racers and battle it out for first place in the 2 remaining laps. He carefully stays in 2nd to avoid getting blasted by a blue shell. Until he picks one up himself. Isaac has just sped ahead of him with a turbo that Stiles only clipped the edge of and sails through the power up boxes. Following as closely as he can behind, he picks up the shell and grins.

"Stilinski, don't you fucking dare," Isaac warns, glancing down at the power up he just received, "If you use that, I will actually rip you in half."

Stiles mashes the release button half a lap before the finish line, "Toodle loo motherfucker!" he yells.

Isaac's kart explodes and Stiles skates around the edge of the blast and holds down the gas so hard he hears the controller squeak in complaint. Isaac mashes angrily at his gas once his kart stops spinning and takes off again. Stiles skids over the finish line a second and a half before Isaac and his shout of, "Fuck you!" is drowned out by Cora shrieking in his ear and Erica yelling, "Fuck yeah, the Princess wins again!" Stiles stands and fist pumps, controller clenched in his left hand.

Boyd rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone, while Isaac chucks his controller at Erica's head before launching himself at Stiles and knocking him to the floor.

"All's fair in love and war," Stiles cries from underneath him. His hands are wrapped around Isaac's wrists, holding them back from his face and chest.

"Yeah, well this means War, buddy," he says, pulling his wrists away, slapping playfully at his hands and getting off of Stiles, "I demand a rematch with no back stabbing asshole tricks like that."

Erica cackles and resets the game, this time letting them choose their own characters. Isaac chooses Luigi a fraction of a second before him, leaving Stiles to pick Peach again. He punches Isaac in the shoulder and flexes his hands on the controller. Stiles retaliates by selecting Rainbow Road before Isaac can choose anything else and everyone on the couch groans, while Stiles merely laughs, "Prepare to die, fucktruck."

Stiles sails over the finish line a full 10 seconds before Isaac this time, and he drops his controller on the couch and stands, two hands in the air. Erica launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck and yelling something incoherent in his ear while Isaac screams in frustration. Boyd pats his shoulder absently and continues looking at phone. Cora's cackling in the corner and holding her stomach.

Isaac's slumped down on the couch in resignation and Cora reaches over to touch him, "Looks like we have a new King," she says to him, still laughing.

"Not likely!" Erica says, detangling herself from Stiles, yanking him back down on the couch,"sit down loser, we're about to hoedown, throw down."

"Actually," a deep voice says from the corner, "I was hoping to borrow Stiles for a moment or two." The 4 of them whip around at the voice, faces lighting up, and springing to their feet, "Derek!" one of them says. He thinks it's Cora. He doesn't look up to check.

He sits, frozen to the couch, and replays the sentence in his head, wondering how it could sound so similar to the voice he'd run smack into before. Literally. It sounds suspiciously like guy from the ally. Boyd, still on the couch, kicks at this thigh, and goes to get up.

"Stiles." quips Erica from behind him, leaning over the couch, and he flinchs hard. He didn't hear her come back over. He looks up at her, noting her eyebrow raised in confusion, before his vision skates over to the corner of the room, where Isaac stands at someones shoulder smiling and Cora is being released from a one armed hug.

And yes, Derek, is in fact who he ran, quite literally, into. He's wearing a dark Henley and jeans, one hand still on Cora's waist, bending his head to talk into her ear, the other carrying a taut white bag, which Isaac gingerly takes from him, peaking inside, before disappearing. The alternate universe kick he'd been forcing himself to function on comes crashing down around his feet.


End file.
